


Bet on Red

by Xyriath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, M/M, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-29 18:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: Shiro's parents taught him not to talk to strangers.





	Bet on Red

**Author's Note:**

> For a zine that fell through. :( Hope you guys enjoy!

Shiro can’t figure out why he’s still here.

He’d known it was a bad idea since the beginning. The invitation had been a joke, offered with a scornful smirk in his direction after he’d overheard a conversation, recognized the address, and turned to ask a simple question.

“Isn’t that area abandoned?”

But his attempt at help had been completely unwanted, and as the ostensible host of the party in discussion had turned in Shiro’s direction, the expression of recognition on his face making it obvious that he had him pegged as the university’s “Golden Boy,” Shiro had realized that the abandonment had been precisely the point.

But joke or not, that hadn’t changed the resentment it had left twisting in his gut. After everything, the notion that everyone still seemed to think Shiro’s life was perfect…

And so he had driven to the address in question, found the abandoned development, and strode unapologetically through the door with the busted lock.

But spite can only carry so far. And with the taste of shitty beer on his lips and the rank smell of weed in the air, Shiro is seriously beginning to think he made a mistake. Even the expressions of near-respect on the faces of the few people he recognizes aren’t worth this.

When someone slinks up to him, drunk and high on something more potent than weed, and invites him home, Shiro decides that he desperately needs air.  He grabs his beer and makes a beeline for the back door.

_ I should leave _ , he tells himself as his eyes sweep over the backyard. Though dimmer than inside the house, the difference isn’t too pronounced, and it takes him a moment to realize why: the pool is glowing a dull, ominous red.

Shiro swallows, wondering how the hosts have managed to get electricity to the pool. A generator seems a little excessive for a seedy party—

But all wondering thoughts stop when Shiro sees  _ him. _

A black hoodie falls low enough to leave only long, slender legs visible as they dangle in the red glow of the pool water; it’s impossible to say if there’s anything else underneath. The delicate angles of the face are almost too sharp to be pretty, but instead find themselves just on the border between lovely and dangerous, managing the best of both.

But it’s his eye that catches Shiro’s attention. Though taped gauze covers one, the other meets Shiro’s, piercing him through and leaving him rooted to the spot—

It can’t be  _ red. _ It has to be a trick of the light. But the color gleaming in the depths is undeniably crimson. For a moment, the exposed eye seems to flash in an even stranger fashion, reflecting the light like a cat’s would.

Shiro doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen, before something else catches his attention.  Ironically the one thing  _ not _ red in this eerie lighting: blood.

“Oh my god,” Shiro gasps, and of course it’s the knowledge that someone is hurt, that someone needs  _ help _ , that snaps him out of the odd trance.

A slow trickle of darkness has leaked from underneath the gauze over the eye, and blood drips from the nostril on the same side of the face. A skinned knee shines in the low light, the water whisking away evidence of the injury as it laps at the shin.

He doesn’t even seem to care. Instead, he watches Shiro with idle interest.

Still, Shiro stumbles over with a bit more distress in his step than he would like. The young man’s attention follows Shiro almost lazily, though he doesn’t move.

“I think you need a doctor,” Shiro says kneeling gently next to him. “Do you want me to go find some tissues?”

“Nah.” A slender wrist, dwarfed by the hoodie, lifts, and the young man idly takes a drag of something that smells sweet.

As Shiro watches him, he realizes that his initial suspicions had been correct.  The red color is only a reflection of the pool, the eerie color coming from, as Shiro can now see, an almost comical number of red glowsticks that have been dumped in—some already sunk, some still struggling to fight the inexorable force that slowly drags them down, and all glowing eerily. But the reality is almost as strange as the illusion: Shiro catches a glimpse of a blue-violet iris before its owner speaks again.

“You’re too clean to be here. What are you?”

“I’m a junior at the university.” Shiro can’t imagine that he* attends as well; Shiro would have noticed someone this lovely long before this. “What about you?”

“I’m not anything like that.” He tilts his head, watching Shiro with a faint smile on his face. “University?”

“You know, on the east side of town.” Shiro’s eyes slide to the bare, pale neck in front of him. “Local, then?”

“No, not local either.” The smeared eyeliner around his eyes sparkles; there must be some sort of glitter in it. “This isn’t normal for you, is it? You’re out of place.”

Shiro swallows at the idle words, wishing they didn’t feel so much like an accusation, resenting the idea that he’s too perfect, too “clean” to belong. Just because he put on a front didn’t mean that his life wasn’t as messed up as the rest of them.  And yet, Shiro can’t bring himself to be angry at this beautiful young man, covered in blood and feeling… off, somehow. Possibly the bright purple eye, or how he smells like flowers and cold. “Well, I’ve never been here before.”

The young man chuckles softly. “I can tell.”

Or maybe it’s the way his quiet voice cuts through all the sound, like Shiro’s been pulled into a bubble of quiet.

And then he’s curling up, pulling his feet out of the water. Shiro isn’t sure why he can hear the splashing of water over the music. “You’re interesting. I like things that don’t fit.” He pats the ground next to himself. “Sit with me.”

Shiro shrugs, not yet taking the invitation, but ignoring the caution ringing in his ears at being faced with something so liminally beautiful. He wants to throw himself forward, climb up into that lap, wrap his arms around him, and lose himself in kisses—

He shakes himself slightly. “I was hoping I could find some way to fit in here.”

“This place isn’t right for you, either. Just like that school. You don’t fit.”

Shiro frowns, the slow drip of blood from underneath the eye bandage distracting him, just a bit. “That’s not true. I’m doing fine.” He hesitates, then reaches into his pocket. He knows he’d grabbed… there they are, a wad of napkins, just in case of accidental spills. “I’m Shiro. How about you?”

He doesn’t miss the slight smirk on those soft-looking lips. “Just Shiro?”

“Shirogane Takashi, technically, but I go by Shiro, yeah.”

The smirk widens as Shiro pulls out the napkins. “It’s nice to meet you, Shirogane Takashi.” The words send something electric sparkling through him, and he suddenly wants more. “You can call me Keith.”

Shiro sets down the quarter-full solo cup. “Nice to meet you too, Keith. Here, let me clean you up.” He reaches out, aiming to dab up at least some of the blood.

Keith’s hand darts out, gripping Shiro’s wrist with surprising strength, and Shiro freezes, alarm jolting through him.

“Now, don’t do that. I can’t owe you a favor.”

Shiro watches Keith cautiously, still unmoving. “You won’t owe me anything. It’s just human decency.”

“No. Everything comes with strings.” Despite his initial iron grip, it’s loosened now, and the only thing keeping Shiro from pushing through and cleaning Keith’s face anyway is an odd, almost urgent need to gain his approval. “You should remember that, before you reach the end of your line.”

“My line?”  _ That _ leaves him unsettled—like children? This time, he gently tugs his hand away, and Keith lets him. “Not everything does. I can help people without needing something in return.”

“That’s not the way it works. Not for me, or my people.”  Keith’s voice retains its quiet, airy quality, despite the dissonance of the strange words. He twists to face Shiro, drawing his shins up, scraping his bare knees on the concrete without even seeming to notice. “I like you, though. If you could have something, anything, what would it be?”

A sneaking suspicion creeps up onto Shiro, and he finds himself wondering exactly how much Keith has had to drink, or smoke, or snort, or all of the above.

“A little deep for a first meeting, isn’t it?” Shiro jokes gently, trying to keep his voice amiable. “Come on, please let me clean you up?”

Keith tilts his head, eyes locking onto Shiro. “I can grant wishes, you know.”

Shiro laughs a little, realizing that wiping away blood isn’t going to do much good, not with how high Keith must be. “Okay, okay. Let’s get you inside. I saw some water bottles; you need them.”

Keith’s hand darts out to touch Shiro’s wrist again, though it doesn’t grip. “Your dad is sick. Terminal, isn’t it?”

An awful sensation twists in Shiro’s gut, and he yanks away, the dizziness spinning around him alerting him to the fact that he might be drunker than he’d realized. “Who told you that?”

“No one. The universe. Whatever. Do you want him cured?”

“Of course I do, but taunting me about it is just  _ cruel! _ ” Shiro snaps, anger fizzing up under his skin, into his face—

“I’m not taunting. Tell you what.”  And then Keith’s fingers touch Shiro’s gently, and despite himself, it seems to gently douse the flames licking up Shiro’s insides.  “I’ll do this. You come to me one night. I’ll be out here.”

Shiro narrows his eyes, struggling between anger, hope, and sobriety. “What the hell are you saying?”

“Call your dad. Tomorrow morning. Not before. Tell him to go to the hospital and get checked out. When you verify that he’s better, come back. I’ll be waiting.”

Shiro closes his eyes. He wants so desperately to be angry, but it’s impossible with Keith’s beautiful face right in front of his. “What—this is some kind of sick joke, right? Why are you doing this?”

“It’s a favor.” A ghost of warmth against Shiro’s lips, and he opens his eyes to see that Keith is only a breath away. “Only one string, a small repayment, in the scheme of things.”

Shiro swallows, nostrils flaring. He can’t figure out why there’s hope in his chest. This shouldn’t be real, shouldn’t be believable, and yet…

“What is it?”

“To come back here. Once you believe me.” Keith’s purple eye pins Shiro in place. “Come see me again.”

“Why should I?” Shiro shoots back, though without venom. “Why do you care?”

Keith’s head tilts again. “You’re kind. That’s unusual. Someone is going to break you, but I can do it kindly.”

Shiro draws back, very slightly, unsure what, alongside the uncertainty and fear, is fluttering through him.  “No one’s going to break me.”

“They will,” Keith murmurs, and Shiro realizes what else it is—it’s  _ want. _ “You have a host waiting for you. I want to get there first.”

Shiro lets out a ragged gasp of a laugh. “What the  _ hell _ are you talking about? What have you heard?”

“Nothing. I don’t listen to people.” Keith smirks, leaning in to kiss Shiro’s cheek. There’s an odd warmth left behind that Shiro distantly identifies as blood. “Call him, but not before six thirteen and seven seconds.”

Shiro opens his mouth to respond, but nothing finds its way out. The alcohol-laden adrenaline is pounding in his ears, and he wants  _ so badly _ to believe…

“If you do one reckless thing in your life, let it be to trust me tonight.”

Shiro’s eyes flick involuntarily back to Keith—back to Keith’s lips. “It’ll be tomorrow, won’t it?”

Keith’s smirk widens into a grin. “Yes, I suppose. Such a stickler.’

Shiro laughs raggedly. “Says the person who said six thirteen and seven seconds.” Keith seems to be closer, now. Had he leaned in? Or had Shiro?

“That’s how magic works, my love.” His eyes drag over Shiro, leaving the unsettling sensation of vulnerability and nakedness. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“I…” Shiro just swallows. “You’re the one who kissed  _ me. _ ”

“That kiss wasn’t real.” He smirks. “Or, at least,, any more real than your persona is.” Shiro opens his mouth to protest, but Keith reaches out, gently touching his fingertips to Shiro’s eyelids and closing them. A breath later, and the soft voice reveals how close Keith has leaned. “Come back to me.”

After a shaky exhalation, Shiro leans forward until their foreheads brush. “Okay.”

And then Keith’s lips touch Shiro’s.

Shiro’s never done drugs before, not even here, but immediately, the taste of Keith’s mouth makes him think of something with unearthly pleasure, of an addictive drug with no cure, something that you can lose yourself in and never come out. Shiro leans in, kissing him back, grabbing Keith’s shoulder when he tries to pull away.

“What are you?” he pants, breathless.

“That,” Keith whispers against his cheek, “you have to earn.”

Shiro’s eyes flutter halfway open. Keith is watching him. “How?”

“Come back. Find me here. You’ll have to look.”

“Okay.” In that moment, Shiro knows that he’ll do anything Keith asks, and the knowledge of giving him whatever he wants makes him want to laugh with delight, run wildly through woods and shout with joy…

He tugs Keith in by his shoulder.

“Be careful, now. I’m only so giving.” But he kisses Shiro again, and Shiro goes willingly into the undertow.

He’s kissed before, definitely, but not like this. Never like this. Pleasure curls through him, and he’s reminded of tasting the most delicious food imaginable, gasping and leaning in to kiss him even deeper.

He hears a small chuckle, but Keith doesn’t pull away—and then it crashes down on him like a tsunami.

With an agonized moan, he twines his arms around Keith’s neck, kissing him even more desperately. When Keith moves closer, it’s barely an effort to grip Keith by his waist and drag him up into his lap as he licks into the ecstasy of Keith’s mouth.

And Keith comes willingly, Shiro’s hands sliding up his thigh and finally finding the shorts hidden by the hoodie. The other hand reaches around to grip Keith’s back, pulling him in, pressing them together.

“God,” Shiro breathes between kisses, and while he doesn’t know what it is about Keith that drives him wild, he doesn’t care, either. “You’re gorgeous.”

Keith hums, gently kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re a strange one.”

Shiro laughs breathlessly as he presses their foreheads together. “Yeah?”

“You don’t usually do this, do you?”

“What do you mean?

“Kissing strangers.” Keith leans in, pecking Shiro’s lips, but it’s as if he’s injected a drug. Shiro shudders, kissing Keith again, desperate and giddy and moaning.

“Well, most strangers… aren’t as gorgeous as you,” he pants.

Keith bites his lip, and Shiro moans again. “Do I really look that good?”

“You’re beautiful.” Shiro chases Keith’s mouth, beaming, floating on the intoxicating sensation of kissing him. “And delicious, and amazing… the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

But Keith’s finger reaches out, pressing against Shiro’s lips.

“To kiss me again, you talk to your dad tomorrow morning.  Then come back here.”

Shiro lets out a whimper, the prospect of being separated from Keith for even a brief moment, let alone an entire night, one of agony. “Please, I’ll talk to him, I swear. Anything you want, you can have it, I just…” But he won’t force himself on Keith, only leans forward pleadingly.

Keith leans forward, but doesn’t come close enough. “Come back to me once it’s finished. I don’t want to spoil you too early.”

Something wild and bold surges within Shiro, and his eyes grow wide. “Come home with me. I’ve never met anyone like you. Never met anyone I’ve wanted to be with like this.”

“Oh, honey,” came the murmured response. “I know.” He stood, and the absence left Shiro reeling. “Find me.”

Shiro stumbles to his feet, frantic for more. “ _ Please! _ ”

But as he glances around, Keith is gone.

—  


Shiro doesn’t remember much past that.

He remembers frantically whirling around, looking for Keith, calling for Keith. He remembers someone coming up beside him, telling him that he was having a bad trip, sitting him down and making him drink some water. But the rest of last night? He doesn’t even know how he got home.

And right now, he doesn’t want to remember  _ anything _ , not with the agonizing hangover pounding in his temples.

He groans, rubbing at his face, cursing himself. He hadn’t even had that much to drink; why this is the worst hangover he’s ever had in his life, he has no idea.

“Late night?”

Shiro grunts, squinting over at his roommate. Out of courtesy, Hunk seems to have made sure to close the curtains and keep the lights off. Shiro doesn’t deserve him.

“Yeah. I… god, someone must have slipped me something.”

Hunk’s eyes widen. “Shit. Dude, do you need to get checked out?”

“I don’t…” His eyes slide to the clock, which reads 12:47, and his eyes snap open as more memories come crashing back.

He sits bolt upright and immediately regrets it, groaning in agony and holding his head.

“Did someone… hurt you?”

Shiro isn’t sure what Hunk is asking, but he shakes his head dismissively. “No, no. I’m fine. I gotta call my dad.” He fumbles for the phone, ignoring the way the bright light of the screen drills straight into the pain centers of his brain, and dials.

“Shiro,” comes the familiar, warm voice, and is it Shiro’s imagination, or does it sound healthier? “How is school?”

“It’s great, Dad.” Shiro tries to calm his beating heart. It doesn’t work. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I have in a long time, actually. It’s nice.” The wistful note in his voice leaves Shiro’s heart aching in a way that’s far more potent than the pain in his head. “How about you?”

“I…” Forget small talk. “I think you should go see the doctor today.”

A pause on the other end. “Shiro? Are you all right? Why is that?”

He swallows. “Just a feeling. Please? You said you had an appointment soon, right? So just…”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go.”

—  


The next three hours are the most terrifying of Shiro’s life. Though the hangover subsides in that time with the help of several glasses of water, nothing can settle his thundering chest—

As the phone rings, Shiro practically leaps for it, swiping to answer.

“Shiro?” His father’s voice sounds disbelieving, and Shiro’s heart leaps into his throat. “Shiro, I—I went. They tested. It’s gone.”

Shiro closes his eyes, relief rocking through him in a rush. “They’re sure? You’re positive? I don’t want it to be…”

“As sure as they could be. They tested three times. There’s no sign of the disease anymore. They said… they said it was some kind of miracle.”

Shiro gasps, and as tears begin to roll from his eyes, he covers his mouth.

“Shiro? Are you okay? Shiro, I’ll be able to see you graduate now—” The emotion that’s overwhelmed Shiro seems to have thickened in his father’s voice, too.

“I know, dad,” Shiro chokes out, letting out a teary laugh, wild joy beating through every vein in his body. “I know.”

—  


A promise is a promise.

Shiro parks his car in the abandoned driveway, glancing around. Seeing no one, he pushes open the door into the house.

It’s a stark contrast to the atmosphere of last night. Though plenty of beer bottles and other garbage litter the ground and the stench of alcohol, drugs, and sex clings to every surface, the emptiness jars Shiro.

And Keith is nowhere to be seen.

Shiro checks every room that he can, finding nothing. He doesn’t even hear a sound. But eventually, he heads outside.

And there he is, sitting cross-legged on the concrete.

Keith looks up, no less liminal and no less beautiful in the daylight, though his pale skin looks nearly translucent against his messy black hair.

Shiro stumbles to a stop.

“There you are,” comes the soft murmur, sending shivers of desire through Shiro’s bones. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

Shiro swallows, then steps forward. “It… it worked. How did you know that…?”

Keith holds up a hand, and Shiro’s words stumble to a stop. A smirk flits across Keith’s face, and Shiro distantly wonders why he feels like a tiny animal about to walk into the clutches of a much larger predator.

And yet he can’t bring himself to care. He knows, without a doubt, that he’ll step into it willingly.

Keith’s hand slowly lowers, and he leans back to watch Shiro idly, then pats his thigh.

“Come here, Shirogane Takashi. Let’s make a deal.”


End file.
